


Ouroboros

by lumiere42



Series: Under The Surface [5]
Category: All Grown Up!, Hannibal (TV), Rugrats
Genre: A sandwich of dubious origin, Crossover, Eating Disorders, Gen, Graphic bulimia stuff, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of deaths of regular and recurring characters from both series, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not crackfic, the special tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumiere42/pseuds/lumiere42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good.” His hand moves to her neck, checking her pulse, she figures. Then she closes her eyes and tries to concentrate on the counting.</p><p>(She will never be able to talk about this with anyone, especially not later: fear and adrenaline and arrhythmia and Dr. Lecter’s hand on her throat.)</p><p>*********<br/>Dr. Lecter introduces a new direction for Angelica's therapy. Takes place concurrently with ep. 2x1 ("Kaiseki") in "Hannibal" timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

“I hear you had a bit of excitement this week.”

Dr. Lecter only pauses slightly when she says that. Then he’s putting the teacup in her hands and taking his seat like nothing happened.  She wraps her hands around the hot porcelain and leans back, the chair’s leather creaking slightly.

“That would, of course, depend on your definition of _excitement_.” His voice sounds a little ragged, like someone trying to hide being tired.  No wonder, considering.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You are the fourth client today who has. Where have you been getting your information – from Ms. Lounds of the somewhat questionable accuracy?”

“No.  Well, yeah, some, but only because I read that site anyway.  I don’t have to for this, though.  It’s _all over_ the news, you know.”

“Regrettably.” 

“Did you know they actually broke into the TV programming when it came out?  I was at my aunt and uncle’s after school. Grandpa Lou was there. He was watching one of those crappy talk shows he likes – you know, the kind where people show up wearing practically no clothes and they yell at each other a lot. Then the local news station interrupted and said the cops caught the Copycat Killer. They put his picture up, and I was like, _whoa, I’ve met that guy!_ ”

Dr. Lecter just nods a little. She pauses to drink some of the tea. It’s different this time, strong with a sweet undertone.  She’s been feeling sleepy and shaky all day. Not surprising, considering what she did, or, rather, didn’t do – but this stuff is helping her wake up.

“They quoted you in a couple of the newspaper articles, you know.” She smiles. “I never knew you were ‘noted’ or ‘prominent.’ No wonder my mom complains about your per-hour rate. My parents were kinda creeped out when they heard, by the way. “

“Your parents had every reason for concern. Their daughter’s psychiatrist was also treating a man who now stands accused of being a serial killer.  A serial killer, moreover, whose victims include several young women not much older than you. And one of those young women was _also_ my client. In fact, I was responsible for Mr. Graham and Ms. Hobbs meeting in the first place – which I now greatly regret. “

“So you kinda think…he did it?”

“Mr. Graham is innocent until proven guilty. Even if he is the Copycat Killer, his mental health status may mean he is not entirely culpable. However, if I had had any doubt about the troubling nature of the evidence I discovered, I would not have reported him to the authorities.” Dr. Lecter’s eyes are unsettlingly blank. “It is a…terrible thing…to discover that someone you thought you knew might be capable of such dreadful acts.”

“I bet.”  She knows exactly what evidence he’s talking about. Tattlecrime has gone into some details that were kept out of the regular news, things she really doesn’t want to think about.  That cute, bewildered Couch Sleeper Guy, not only killing people, but _eating_ them? _EW. And people think **I** have issues with food?_

“I have only one more thing to say on the subject.” Dr. Lecter leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Know this: Mr. Graham’s alleged acts took place far away from this office.  He did meet Ms. Hobbs through me, yes, but their friendship – if you can call it that – developed outside this office as well. Never were you in any danger from him. If your parents are still concerned, I’m willing to speak with them.”

She nods and slurps down the rest of the tea. “I think they’ll be okay with it. I mean, it’s not like it was _your_ fault.”

“Good.  We are not, however, here to discuss those events. I have some questions to ask regarding your particular disordered eating practices.”

“Go ahead.”  She has to consciously make her voice sound more confident than she actually feels after hearing that.  God, why do shrinks always have to go prying into the _details_?

“I must warn you: some of this may be triggering for you.”

“I can handle it.”

“You mentioned that your parents withheld your allowance when they thought you were buying too much junk food. You have not yet had a job, correct?”

“Nope.”

“Did you restrict your eating when you had no money?”

 _Oh man._ “No. I mean, I tried, but…” She looks down at her hands. She’d painted her nails just this morning, a bright orange like a hunting vest. If she hadn’t, someone probably would’ve said something about how blue they were.

“How did you obtain food, then?”

She has a bad feeling he already knows. “I…stole it.”  She’s starting to feel oddly jittery, like there’s a swarm of bees in her stomach.  Maybe drinking tea that strong, that fast, was a bad idea. 

“I wondered.”  Yep, he’d figured it out, all right. “From what you’ve said of your parents, it couldn’t have been your family’s own pantry you were plundering. Was it at relatives’ homes? Or those of friends?”

She laughs. _Where do I start?_   “Yeah. I took…a lot of stuff from a lot of people. The trick is, you never take too _much_ stuff from any one place, see? I spent a lot of time at the Devilles’. Offered to help Phil and Lil with their homework. They’ve always got a ton of food over there. I’d leave my backpack in the kitchen, wait till I could sneak in there without anyone noticing, and then I’d load up.”

“They never noticed?”

“Mrs. Deville did, kind of, but she just thought Phil and Lil were eating a lot. She’d make jokes about growing kids turning into garbage disposals. Same thing at my aunt and uncle’s – they thought Tommy and Dil were doing it. Or Grandpa Lou, when he came over. He’s been eating a lot since Grandma Lulu died.”

“When did that happen?”

“A little over a year ago.” She sees Dr. Lecter’s eyebrows go up, and adds, “I don’t think that had anything to do with my…problem, if you’re wondering.”

“It may not have been a _primary_ cause, but it _was_ another stressor in your life at the time.”

“I guess so.”  She doesn’t want to sit still anymore.  She stands – carefully – and goes over toward the long couch and curtained windows, where there’s room to pace. Dr. Lecter turns in his seat, to watch her. She’s not sure she likes how intently he’s looking at her. Then again, she’s not sure she _dislikes_ it. “Grandma Lulu was a nurse for years and years. I bet _she_ would’ve noticed something.”

“You may be right.”

She sighs. “Anyway. I stole from everyone I knew. Even when I _got_ my allowance.  I wanted to have a stash. I kept it hidden in my room. That way I was always prepared. Greedy, huh?”

“Hoarding food is actually a very typical human response when getting inadequate nutrition.”

She stops pacing and stares at him. “ _Inadequate?_ I was probably eating _pounds_ of stuff  - “

“Only during binges.  Following that with purging would have eliminated much of the possible benefit. And most of what you _did_ consume was probably of very little actual nutritional value.”

“That’s true.” She thinks of everything she can never let herself eat again. Corn chips, tortilla chips, potato chips (for some reason, she always wanted lots of salty things during one of those…episodes). Brightly colored candy, peanut butter cups. Cookies, of course. Ice cream, the worst of all to barf up.

No. _Raw cookie dough_ is the _absolute_ worst. That stuff _sticks_ on the way back up. She’s not going to give Dr. Lecter _that_ much detail, though.

What she _does_ say next surprises her. “I shoplifted, too.”

“I wondered.”

“Are you gonna tell my parents?”

“There are only a very few things I would be obligated to tell your parents. This is not one of them.”

“Good. So, um…there’s this convenience store a couple blocks away from the school? I used to get Susie to come in there with me all the time? And then I’d do it.”

“Why this particular friend? Did she serve as an accomplice?”

“ _Susie?_ God, no, not her. She’d never do that.” She puts her hands behind her back and looks away. “Uh…the thing is, Susie’s black, and the owner of that place is kinda racist? He’d always be watching _her_ really close, so he never paid any attention to _me._ ”

“You used the owner’s prejudice to your advantage.”

“Exactly.” She pauses near the couch. “You think I should tell her?”

“I would advise you not to. It would likely damage your relationship. The same applies to everyone else you stole from. All it would do at this point is harm their ability to trust you in the future.”

“Just between us, huh?”

“It can certainly remain that way.”

She smiles. “I guess telling you counts as…enough…” Her words trail off. Dark spots are starting to explode in front of her eyes. She hears herself gasping, suddenly, her heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s coming up into her throat.

Dr. Lecter’s voice, distantly: “Angelica?”

Then the floor slams up at her and there’s a moment of complete blackness.

She wakes up on her back, breath rasping frantically in and out, little sparkles dancing around in her vision. Dr. Lecter’s kneeling beside her, leaning over her, a hand on her head.

“Angelica? Do you hear me?” His voice is low and calm. She tries to answer, but nothing comes out except a little whimper.

“Stay very still. Focus on your breathing. Count to three when you breathe in, then again when you breathe out. Can you do that?”

She nods. It sets off more stars in her vision.

“Good.” His hand moves to her neck, checking her pulse, she figures. Then she closes her eyes and tries to concentrate on the counting.

(She will never be able to talk about this with anyone, especially not later: fear and adrenaline and arrhythmia and Dr. Lecter’s hand on her throat.)

It seems like forever before her breathing slows to normal. Her heart is still thudding weirdly, but at least it’s doing it regularly now.

Dr. Lecter puts one hand behind her head and the other under her waist. Then he’s, not so much _pulling_ her up, as sort of _rolling_ her up. She thinks: _I bet he’s done this before._ He props her up, sitting so she’s leaning against the edge of the couch.

“I’ll be back shortly. Do _not_ try to get up. That would be a very bad idea right now.”

She gives him a thumbs-up, without opening her eyes. A brief silence, then a door opening and closing. She lets her head flop back against the couch cushion. _I really_ _did it this time. Please don’t let him be calling 911 or something._

She hears the door again. Dr. Lecter sits down beside her and puts things into her hands. She opens her eyes, vision still fuzzy, and looks down: a bottle of water and something slightly squashy in waxed paper.

“What?”

“You didn’t eat anything today. Or very little. Am I correct?”

She can’t quite make herself answer. Or even look at him. _God, this is embarrassing._

“When a person hasn’t been eating sufficiently for a time, that person enters a state called ketosis. It’s the point at which the human body starts feeding on itself. It has a distinct smell to it. I noticed it when I gave you your tea.”

“Did you…just say I stink?”

“No. It’s not something anyone who hasn’t had certain specific medical training would notice. However, as long as it hasn’t advanced much, the solution is simple. Fortunately, I have some leftovers from lunch.”

“What if I…say I’m…not gonna eat this?”

“There is another option. It involves you going to the hospital and being fed intravenously. I’m assuming you don’t want that.”

She sighs. “Can you at least not watch?”

“I shall focus elsewhere, if it helps.”

Usually she hates water. Making herself drink it as her main beverage, for weight loss, hasn’t changed that.  She finds herself gulping most of the bottle anyway, with a feeling of vague surprise. 

The thing in the waxed paper turns out to be half a sandwich: some kind of oaty bread, and meat she can’t identify. It’s like pork, but not quite. She eats it in quick, pecking bites.

“What’s in this?” She knows she’s talking with her mouth full, but she doesn’t care. “I can’t figure it out.”

“Would it disturb you if I said it was deer?”

“Really?” She swallows the last bite and turns to look at Dr. Lecter. “I never had _that_ before.” Something occurs to her. “Was it from that girl Abigail?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You can’t really buy deer in the store.” Her head is starting to feel clear again. “That drawing you did of her? I remembered she was hunting a deer in it. And I just can’t imagine you tromping around in the woods with a gun.”

Dr. Lecter smiles. “The late Ms. Hobbs did, in fact, contribute to my larder.”

“Oh, jeez. It was the _same_ Abigail? I mean, I saw that was her name in the news but – I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known. Can you discuss _why_ you haven’t been eating?”

“Huh? Oh. I don’t know, I guess…well.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Some of my clothes got too small. I mean, I’ve gotten – too big. My mom took me shopping. It was okay till…we ran into someone I knew when I was little. Taffy. My old babysitter. I used to think she was really cool. Anyway. She recognized me and she sort of made a big deal about how I look.”

“She found it upsetting?”

“No. That was the whole problem.” She closes her eyes and sees it all again in her head: herself standing there with an armful of overpriced blouses and jeans, her mom looking more and more stricken as Taffy chattered obliviously on. _Little Angelica Pickles! Wow, you totally grew up to look like a model, or something! I’m so jealous, I mean, I look at food and gain weight, and you just get to be a coat hanger. Lucky._

“Did she _compliment_ you?”

“She wouldn’t ever have _meant_ anything by it. My mom distracted her, asking her about her life now, but – well. If people think I look good, maybe I shouldn’t gain anything more back. I could just stay where I am now. But I didn’t wanna start doing…you know what…again. One busted esophagus is enough for a lifetime. My parents and grandpa aren’t watching me so much anymore, so…”

“You began restricting again instead.”

She nods, her face growing hot.

He stands, and offers her a hand. “You should remain still for a time, allow your blood sugar to rebound. The couch is better for that.”

She lets him help her up and onto the thing. The upholstery is smooth and cool. She stares up into the shadows on the ceiling.

“Regarding what your old acquaintance said.” Dr. Lecter’s voice is further away. She turns her head to see him over at the desk, writing something out. “Medically, you are still at a point where you need to regain more weight simply for basic health.  I’m sure your babysitter meant no harm. She likely just has a warped sense of aesthetics due to excess unhealthy media influence. But she _was_ wrong.”

She doesn’t really know what to say to that, so she doesn’t respond.

“You should know that I _am_ legally – and morally – obligated to tell your parents what happened.”

“I kinda figured that.” _Damn._ She yawns. Her limbs feel noodle-limp. “They’re…picking me up…can you, um, try to talk to them? Make them get it? I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“Certainly. I think, however, that you and I should consider some alternative forms of therapy. I have two suggestions.”

“What?” Sleep is coming over her in waves now.

“The first is the prescription I’m writing for you – a low-dose anti-anxiety medication. It may help you sleep, and, yes, eat more easily.”

“Okay.” Well, she can always hide the pill under her tongue and spit it out later if she doesn’t like it.

“I would also like you to consider the possible benefits of hypnotherapy. It can be used to overcome many counterproductive behavior patterns. We could remove some of these destructive messages from your mind – replace them with better ones.”

Hypnosis. That’s a new one. “You’re not gonna…hypnotize me so I quack like a…duck when I hear the word ‘orange’ or anything?”

“That would be unethical, if it were possible. Hypnotherapy cannot program people to do things they would be fundamentally opposed to doing anyway. Despite whatever you may have seen in movies.”

“I guess it’s okay, then.” She yawns again.

“I will discuss it with your parents when they arrive, which should be shortly. In the meantime, you should rest.”

“Patients…sleeping in your office…you should charge…hotel fees.”  She closes her eyes.

  

She awakens briefly when her parents come in. There’s a murmur of conversation, her mom’s voice going up in  - shock? Surprise? Something. The sound of the office door opening and closing, and the voices moving further away. Dr. Lecter must be taking them out in the waiting room to talk. She should probably get up and listen at the door, she thinks, and then she's asleep again.

She's too tired to remember getting in the car. She dozes off in the backseat, waking to a sluggish half-consciousness twice at long stops: once to see the pharmacy outside, once to see the sandwich shop.

Her dad's voice, at one point, quiet and dull: _Angelica? You know we love you. You know we're just trying to help you, right?_

She doesn't answer, just pretends she's still asleep.

 

She heads straight for the stairs when they get in the front door, and then her mom is taking her arm (gently, she notes) and pulling her into the kitchen. 

Her dad is putting the sandwich shop takeout on the table. A heavy smell of onions and peppers and vinegar drifts up from it.

"Mom? Dad? I'm tired." She tries to make her eyes wide and put a sad-little-girl lilt in her voice.

"You need to eat first." Her mom's voice is quiet, but firm.

"Can't I do it later?"

"If you can't be trusted to eat with no one watching, then someone will just have to watch you do it."

Her dad looks up from arranging his food. "Charlotte - "

"The other way isn't _working_ , Drew. Angelica, sit down and eat."

For a second she thinks of just turning around and walking out the door. Then she takes a deep breath. _Okay. They wanna watch me eat? They'll get something to watch._

She gets a pair of chopsticks from the kitchen drawer and sits down, at the head of the table.  She opens the half-sub in front of her, needling it open with the chopsticks. Veggies only a big meaningless scatter of colors, on white bread, with egg slices and - yech - everything practically _drenched_ in oil.

She starts eating the thing, tiny pinched bit by tiny pinched bit, each piece of vegetable going into her mouth separately. Her parents, to either side of her, pretend to be focusing on their own food, but she sees their sidelong gazes. There's no sound in the room except chewing and the dry ticking of the kitchen clock.

  

Two hours later, after every ounce of oily vegetable and bread is gone, after her parents have stood there watching her swallow one of the blue-and-white pills Dr. Lecter prescribed, she's finally allowed to go to her room.

She pauses in the upstairs hallway. There's a faint tinny echo of voices coming up through the heat register in the floor. _Oh, right! I haven't listened to them that way in years, but -_ She kneels down, her knees hurting almost immediately from contact with the floor, and puts her ear to the vent.

Dad: _But it won't work, Charlotte. If she's going to take that long with every meal, just to - to mess with us, or whatever - we have to think of something else. With work and everything, we just can't -_

Mom: _I know, Drew. I'm_ trying _to think of something. Maybe Lou can come over and watch her more often. Or she can go to the Carmichaels' or the Devilles' or something. If I pay them enough, they might help. Lucy Carmichael's a doctor. I should ask her for ideas._

Dad: _Maybe the medication will help. Or the hypnotherapy Dr. Lecter was talking about._

Mom: _I don't know how I feel about any of that, honestly. Never thought I'd have a child on psychotropics. I just wonder if that man knows what he's doing._

Dad: _You just don't like him because he called you out on your BS the first time we went to talk to him. Maybe somebody besides you can be right sometimes, ever think of that?_

She doesn't wait around to hear her mom's reply.

She flops on her bed without bothering to change into pajamas. Fluffy jumps up next to her, turns around a few times with arthritic care, and starts kneading her jacket. Something crinkles in the pocket.

It's another folded slip of heavy, cream-colored paper. Dr. Lecter must have put it there while she was sleeping. She smiles.

Inside, a fine-lined drawing of a snake curled into a ring, the tip of its own tail in its mouth. Underneath, the words:

_L'Ouroboros se dévore infiniment, comme vous faites, mais sa destruction est aussi interprétée comme le recommencement sans fin. Donc allons faire nous transformer un dans l'autre._

Her brain refuses to translate. She's glad she left the laptop on the bedside table and can check:

_The Ouroboros devours itself endlessly, just as you do, but its destruction is also interpreted as endless renewal. So shall we transform one into the other._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing copyrighted herein, and get no profit from it except my own kinda sick amusement.


End file.
